Running barefoot in my Grandma’s yard is how I spent most of my summers. On those three acres of land, It was like my own little kingdom.

 I knew how to climb to the top of all of the trees, which branches weren’t safe to stand on, which trees smelled the best, which ones gave me the best view of the distant marshes. The birch tree on the hill is my favorite, it is high up and so I don’t even have to go all the way up to be able to see the whole skyline. The rolling, luscious hills, full of  burrows and nests; the towering trees in the marshland; the wild daisies that populate everything after the last frost of spring and before the first of the fall. This little sanctuary of mine, right off of Elkhart Lake in Wisconsin, is beautiful. 

The lovely song of the Mourning Doves that perch on our porch await us at dawn, their light brownish-grey feathers blending into the wood. They are very nice, and I can usually stand about 3 feet away from them before they fly away. I love laying on top of the mosses that grow in the shade underneath the porch, the plush greenery feeling like velvet on my face and arms. The gardens that I worked on with her were pristine and successful, every harvest proved to be just a bit better than the last.

 My cat Murray was more often than not by my side as we explored our domain, us both chasing after butterflies and climbing trees, we were inseparable. Him, being an Orange and White tabby, embodied the orange-cat stereotype of being mischievous, fun-loving, and friendly.  Some Days, when it was fairly windy and the turkey vultures and eagles were circling above, I put a harness on Murray so he wouldn’t be scooped up as a snack. They never dove at us to eat him, but they flew above us menacingly. They did get other animals in front of us though, reminding us about the fragility of life. Murray passed away last year at 21, and was buried at the place where the old willow tree once stood, next to our other cat who had passed two years prior. Now I visit his grave whenever I go, because it’s very peaceful in the little alcove surrounded by Catalpa trees and Lilac bushes. 

When the Lilacs bloom, the whole place smells magical and looks like something straight out of pixie hollow, where tinkerbell would live. I think that’s fitting, considering all the butterflies that travel back every year to feast on the milkweed in the surrounding kettles. 

This land was originally supposed to be used as a gravel pit because of the abundance of rocks, but I’m forever grateful for my Grandparents who instead built their home on it. I couldn’t imagine growing up without this place, for it’s mine. I invest my time in it now by pulling weeds, trimming bushes,  taking down trees, and even cleaning the gutters on the roof if I have the time. It’s my sanctuary, and I take pride in its appearance and upkeep when I have the time.